


evil inside you

by Twice_before_Friday



Series: Altered & Extended - season 2 [2]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Concussions, Episode: s02e02 Speak of the Devil, Exorcisms, Fights, Gen, Hurt Malcolm Bright, Religious Imagery, Stand Alone, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28977744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/pseuds/Twice_before_Friday
Summary: It's just as Malcolm begins to think that maybe this will all end peacefully, that he can keep Jonah calm until the team can restrain him and the paramedics arrive, that everything goes to hell. With an ungodly howl, Jonah launches himself from the floor, the sheer ferocity taking Malcolm completely by surprise as he swings for his jugular with the jagged glass.
Series: Altered & Extended - season 2 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112852
Comments: 17
Kudos: 105





	evil inside you

"Dominus autem misit ad infertim." 

Friar Pete's words cut through the speaker, and Malcolm can't help but cringe as he forces himself to repeat them. He doesn't believe in this. Doesn't believe that exorcisms can work, that demons are real.

But he understands that Jonah _does_ believe. And if he can convince the man that his demons have been expelled, this might just end without bloodshed.

"Dominum autem misit ad infertim." Malcolm repeats the phrase slowly, the words spilling awkwardly from his tongue. His Latin is rusty. It's been years since he's had a reason to call upon it and he can hear the slight mispronunciation in his words. He just has to hope that Jonah does not.

It's like a switch flips. Jonah's entire countenance changes. The pain and confusion that were contorting his face melt away in an instant, replaced by a deadly calm that turns Malcolm's blood to ice in his veins.

"I see it now," Jonah says, still brandishing the shard of stained glass. "The darkness. The evil. You have it, too."

The words echo through his head and settle heavy in his heart.

Because Jonah isn't wrong.

He can feel it inside of him. The evil. That indescribable _something_ that allowed him to dispose of Endicott's body. That little piece of him that he fears _enjoyed_ it. His subconscious practically screamed the same damn thing when he fell asleep back in the precinct, consumed by a nightmare that felt too real, too ominous. Ainsley's voice replayed on a loop in his mind long after he woke, unearthing his worst fears from where he'd so diligently buried them.

_You have evil inside you. Use it!_

He's been battling it for months, straining to keep it hidden, and now twice in one day, two complete strangers have scented his guilt, his depravity, and dragged it into the light. 

Now, he can't help but wonder if there's some truth to Norman's words. Back in the attic, Norman insisted it was in his blood, that it was in _Malcolm's_ blood. 

Norman knew it.

And somehow, Jonah knows it, too.

"What?" Malcolm whispers, only vaguely aware of Martin's shouts on the other end of the line, telling him to ignore Jonah and repeat the words that Friar Pete intones, but Malcolm is pinned as Jonah's gaze reaches into the depths of everything Malcolm is and latches onto the blackness that's staining him.

He can feel Jonah inside of him, rooting through his mind, his soul, his blood.

"The Power of Christ compels you." It's hardly more than a whisper, a breath of hope that struggles to make it past his lips at all. The words come out so hushed that the flame of the candle he's holding only inches from his face barely even flickers, dancing obscenely between the two men.

It's enough, though, that Martin hears it. That his father hears the fear and weakness and despair in Malcolm's voice.

"Repeat it. Believe it. Louder!" Martin shouts, and Malcolm is helpless to disobey, as he always has been.

It's because Martin is so deep inside of him, pumping through his very veins and corroding what's left of a soul he's not sure he ever had to begin with, that his entire body reacts to Martin's words. He absorbs his father's fervor, his intensity. He channels Martin as he repeats the words that feel so foreign on his tongue.

"The Power of Christ compels you!"

Jonah's knees begin to buckle, his entire body twisting in on itself as Malcolm repeats the command. And while Malcolm's logical mind knows it's only working because Jonah _believes_ it's working, a tiny part of his mind — the same part that carried an unwavering hope for all those years, believing that his father had loved him until John Watkins annihilated that dream — can't help but wonder if it could truly be this easy to purge someone of evil.

Can't help but wonder if there's hope for him, too.

Maybe, just maybe, if this works on Jonah...

"The Power!" 

Malcolm practically shouts it, pouring everything he is into it.

"Of Christ!" 

Jonah's knees hit the ground, his arms wrapping around himself as though he's in agony. In a way, Malcolm supposes, he is.

"Compels you!"

The final burst of words rips from his throat, filing the cavernous space as his voice bounces off the walls and floats to the heavens, a prayer and a command and, maybe, if he's honest with himself, his last hope for salvation.

And it appears to be working. Jonah jerks forward, catching himself on one arm to keep from falling to the ground completely, still grasping onto the shard of glass, so hard now that blood is beginning to drip to the floor beneath him. He looks so close to defeated that Malcolm wonders briefly what exactly the true cost of this little charade was.

It's just as Malcolm begins to think that maybe this will all end peacefully, that he can keep Jonah calm until the team can restrain him and the paramedics arrive, that everything goes to hell. With an ungodly howl, Jonah launches himself from the floor, the sheer ferocity taking Malcolm completely by surprise as he swings for his jugular with the jagged glass.

Both his phone and the candlestick clatter to the floor as Malcolm grabs for Jonah's wrist with one hand and the glass with his other, throwing himself backwards, frantically struggling to keep Jonah from slicing his throat open. Malcolm cups his hand over the sharp point at the edge of the shard as Jonah leans into him, bending him backwards over the altar, arched painfully as he fights for his life.

There's nowhere for Malcolm to go, no way to fight against what feels like an inhuman strength as Jonah grips the glass so tightly that his flesh parts, sending streams of blood flowing over Malcolm's arm and onto his throat as they struggle for control.

And Malcolm knows he has no hope of winning.

He watches helplessly as the glass digs through the palm of his hand, slowly tearing through his skin and muscle and tendon as Jonah puts his weight behind the attack, fighting to get the glass to Malcolm's carotid artery as though the barrier of his hand wasn't even there. His own blood joins the river that's flowing down on him, seeping into his collar and trailing around his throat to soak the hair at the nape of his neck.

A desperate scream rips from Malcolm's lungs as Jonah slams his hand down, hard enough that the glass pierces all the way through Malcolm's palm, blue glass stained red as it tears through the skin on the back of his hand, the jagged glass splaying him open with no remorse.

He sucks in a sharp breath around the excruciating pain that jolts through his nerves, white hot and relentless, as the glass is shoved deeper and deeper, the wound in his hand growing larger as the glass rips through him. 

Malcolm screams until he runs out of air, then he drags in a rasping breath that somehow seems to make the ache in his hand pulse even harder. 

"Jonah," Malcolm pleads. His arms still strain to push Jonah back, but the more he pushes Jonah, the further the glass sinks into his hand, stealing his breath away. It takes a moment for him to suck in enough air to try and talk him down. "Please, you're sick. You need help."

It's pointless, he knows. Jonah is delusional. Martin specifically told him to lock Jonah in a room because there would be no getting through, no talking him down. But he can't just lean back and await his death.

"I am not sick," Jonah says with a deadly calm that leaves Malcolm's skin crawling. "I am Abaddon."

Try as he might, Malcolm knows he can't fend Jonah off much longer. The glass is already scratching against the delicate skin of his throat as his hand is pressed farther and farther down, scraping over his pulsepoint. The blood wells in his palm, disturbingly warm, before it runs over the edge of his hand to mix and swirl and dance with the blood that's steadily flowing from the back of his hand.

And Jonah can't seem to look away.

It makes sense. His obsession with bloodletting has left him absolutely fixated with not only the act itself, but the blood that's drained from the body.

So while Jonah is distracted, his gaze locked on the flowing streams of blood, Malcolm makes his move.

He jerks his body to the side. Just a few inches.

Just enough to give him space to slam his hand down, _hard_ , on the altar beneath him, shattering the thick glass into dozens of harmless fragments, rendering it useless as a weapon.

Malcolm's vision swims, blackness blooming and swelling, threatening to consume him as the glass shifts and snaps inside of his hand. A mournful howl escapes his lungs before he can stop it, but he honestly doesn't even hear it over the throbbing rush of his heartbeat in his ears. The pain is sharp and sudden and all-consuming and he thinks he may throw up, but somehow he manages to swallow down the bile that burns its way up his esophagus long enough to squirm out from under Jonah as the man clasps his own hand, shouting as the shards pierce his skin.

In the blink of an eye, Malcolm runs through his available options, and he doesn't particularly like any of them. He could try to get away, but there's no guarantee that he could and, worse, no guarantee that Jonah wouldn't make a break for it, too. He could try to keep Jonah occupied until the team gets back, but if Jonah finds another weapon, Malcolm may not be so lucky this time. 

Which leaves him with his original plan. 

He takes slow steps backwards, away from Jonah and back towards the pews, hoping to put some space between them as he recites the words from memory, praying neither his Latin nor his memory fail him now.

"Humiliare sub pontente manu De. Da honorem Deo et Patri omnipoténti. Speaking quickly and with as much conviction as he can manage while cradling his mangled hand, Malcolm continues. "Deus repellit. Deus vincit."

A shudder rocks Jonah's entire body, but it only slows him for a moment before he's rushing at Malcolm, tackling him with enough force that they crash into the nave, sliding a dozen feet back between the pews. 

Malcolm hits the floor hard, his head bouncing off the polished surface with a sickening crack, but he knows he can't wait. Can't allow Jonah to get the upper hand again.

"Dominus autem misit ad infernu," Malcolm calls out as he kicks Jonah off of him and starts to crawl away. The room tilts enough from the knock to his head that he doesn't dare stand, doesn't trust his balance enough to get him away safely.

He's halfway down the nave when a hand wraps around his ankle and jerks mercilessly, sending him sprawling on his stomach and punching the air from his lungs as Jonah drags him back towards the apse. His hands scramble for purchase as he's hauled along, but the floor is slick and his hand bleeds everywhere, leaving a bloody trail streaked across the crisp white marble.

Malcolm tries to kick out, tries to free himself, but Jonah's grip is uncompromising and, while Malcolm isn't sure if the sudden spinning of the room around him is from blood loss or the concussion he thinks he may have, he knows he's in no fit state to handle a man in the midst of a poison-induced psychotic break.

"The power of Christ compels you," Malcolm pants, closing his eyes against the sway of the world as he's dragged up four steps and then another two, his body bouncing painfully off each tread. 

Jonah's grip falters at the words, but Malcolm's head is foggy and he doesn't have the presence of mind to make a move before he's being hauled up to the altar once again. He kicks out as soon as they're stopped, but Jonah doesn't even seem to notice as Malcolm's foot smashes into his thigh. He merely bends down and scoops Malcolm up, the lightest of burdens, then tosses him down harshly on the cold stone altar.

"The first woe has passed," Jonah says, wrapping his hands around Malcolm's throat and squeezing. His grip is slick from his own bloody cuts, but the slivers of glass that are embedded in his hand press into Malcolm's throat, cutting shallow grooves into his flesh. "Behold, two woes are still to come."

Malcolm rasps and splutters as he wraps his fingers around Jonah's wrists and tries to force his hands away. The wound in his palm aches and burns with every jerking movement, but he still keeps pushing, keeps fighting, ignoring the pain to focus on freeing himself.

"The power of Christ—"

Jonah squeezes hard enough to cut off the words (and his air) before he can even finish. Malcolm has a fleeting moment of curiosity amidst the pain and the panic, wondering if Jonah's planning on killing him like this or if he's just trying to control him long enough to perform his ritual, to slice him up and bleed him dry. 

He can't suck in a full breath around the hands that are trying to crush his trachea, but when Jonah's hand slips in the blood, Malcolm uses what little air he can steal to spit out the words one last time, looking Jonah in the eye and stating it with all of the conviction he can muster.

"The power of Christ compels you!" 

And Jonah lets go.

It's just for a second, as his body jerks away and convulses lightly. But it's all the time Malcolm needs. 

He reaches above his head, grabbing hold of a nearby candlestick, letting the candle itself fall to the floor unheeded as he firms his grip and swings with all his might.

The candlestick cracks against Jonah's head and he crumples to a heap on the floor, unmoving, but quite clearly still breathing.

Malcolm allows himself a moment to fall back against the altar, feeling the hurts that are pulsing through his entire body, a dull throb in his head and throat, punctuated with a white hot twinge in his hand as the blood pumps from the gaping gash.

It takes a minute for his breaths to calm, for his heartbeat to stop rushing in his ears, but once it does, he hears the tinny clamour of Martin's voice, calling out anxiously.

Malcolm rolls his eyes and huffs out a sigh, pushing tenderly to his feet as the church swims around him in swirling waves.

Definitely blood loss. He recognizes that feeling.

He closes his eyes and finds his equilibrium, taking deep breaths to steady himself before he attempts to push away from the altar he's still leaning against for support. Once he feels relatively steady, he opens his eyes and sweeps the ground with his gaze, attempting to locate his phone. It's not far, thankfully, and he slowly stumbles over, listening as Martin's voice becomes louder with each step he takes.

"What was that? What-what happened? Son?"

If Malcolm didn't know better (he does), he'd think his father was truly worried. That he cared.

He takes a deep breath before crouching down and picking up the phone with his good hand, bringing it to his ear and groaning as he straightens back up.

"Son?" Martin says, concern giving way to relief as he hears Malcolm pick up the phone.

"I finished the ritual," Malcolm murmurs, and then promptly decides it would be better if he were sitting. His knees hit the ground before he's even finished pondering the thought.

"Good for you, my boy! And it worked?" Martin asks, genuine curiosity suffusing the words.

"Course it did'n work," Malcolm slurs as he battles the urge to just lay down and take a rest. "Possession is'n real.

Martin says something in response — something that sounds vaguely patronizing and perhaps a little scornful — but Malcolm doesn't pay it any mind, because suddenly there's a commotion from back in the crypts, boots on stone that echoes through the church, and he knows the team is coming.

"Gotta go," Malcolm says, hanging up before Martin has a chance to add his two-cents in yet again.

In the seconds that it takes for the team to arrive, Malcolm sits back on his heels and lets his phone slip from his fingers. With his hands resting limp in his lap, his gaze falls heavy on the blood still flowing from the jagged wound. The crimson flood still fills his palm, still pours from the back of his hand.

And he can't help but think that Norman and Jonah were right all along. Maybe there _is_ something in his blood. Something evil. Something that needs to be exorcised.

And maybe that _something_ is his father.


End file.
